Captured
by Finely Endowed
Summary: The Governor has ordered Merle to capture and bring back a woman. He sets out on his mission determined and pissed. But when he finds the woman he's been looking for, will he find something else too? Merle/OC Rating could change.
1. Prologue

**Disclaimer: **I don't own the Walking Dead, Merle Dixon, or Michael Rooker. There ya happy? Cuz I'm not. *sniff, sniff*

* * *

**Prologue**

"Hurry the fuck up, princess! Ah ain't got all day!" She grumbled lightly, but continued packing up the rest of her stuff. "Imma kill ya 'n just tell the Governor the walkers got ya!" She rolled her eyes and ignored his empty threat. "Then ah'll hightail it out a here, sugartits, 'n ah'll be ridin' in style!"

"My name is_ Erica_! And like hell you will, Merle! It's_ my _truck!" she yelled. Erica finished stuffing the last shirt in her bag with a huff. For spite, she sat down on the bed, determined to waste his precious time.

It only took a few minutes for the angry voice to begin cursing and yelling. "What the fuck is takin' ya so long? Ain't like ya carry whole lotta stuff 'round anyway!" Merle growled loudly from outside.

Erica stared at her nails, picking at the damaged ends. "Oh, I don't know," she called, "I found a whole drawer of clothes in the dresser!" She smiled to herself. She couldn't get back at him for a lot of the things he did, so she had to make do with the little inconveniences. "It may take at least another ten minutes!"

"The hell, woman? Ya ransackin' the whole place? We already got everythin' worth shit, just leave 'em!" he bellowed angrily. She smirked.

Tsking loudly, she could hear him enter the house, but didn't move from the room upstairs. "Wasteful!" she chastised. She pulled her feet up on the bed and crossed her legs underneath her. Merle's footsteps, that only made sound when he was angry, crashed through the old house. "How have you survived this long with that attitude?"

"Ya know damn well ah can survive, but ah am startin' ta think yer hinderin' m' 'bility," he yelled up the stairs. His heavy boots slammed on the old wooden steps as he made his way up. "Can't wait till ahm rid a ya!"

She scowled.

"Oh, look!" she shouted bitterly. "_Another drawer_."

"How many clothes do ya need, woman!" He made his way to the end of the hallway.

"Oh, a girl can never have too many clothes," she bit out sarcastically.

The door flew open, banging against the flower covered wall.

"What the-" He scanned the room quickly, before his cold eyes zeroed in on her.

She didn't have time to utter a word before he was scooping her up. He tossed her over his shoulder, his mutated limb wrapped around her body and holding her in place. She squeaked in protest as the breath was knocked out of her. Out of the corner of her eyes, she saw him grab her suitcase, but then she was whirled around, her sight lost as she became dizzy and disoriented. "Put me down!" she cried, punching at his back and trying to kick his chest with her feet. Her drab, light brown hair, dirty and unwashed, blocked her view. She could see nothing but the old floorboards underneath Merle's feet as they moved along. Everything spun. She blinked rapidly, trying to get her bearings. "This is unacceptable! I am not an animal!"

Merle chuckled darkly. "Yer right, yer ass is way ta nice ta be anythin' but human," he retorted. Erica could practically see his smirk and it made her glower harder. Unfortunately, the only recipient of her dirty looks was the ground. She felt something brush along her backside, lingering a little too long on the curve of her ass.

"You fucking pervert! Stop it! Put me down, right now!" she screeched. She kicked and punched harder, but it was like his chest had a plate of armor covering it. He certainly didn't seem to notice her efforts.

"Nah, can't do that," he denied. She growled with rage. "Ya might find another drawer."

"Fuck you!" She screamed in fury and smacked the back of his head.

"Oi! Now don't be doin' tha' shit, or ah'll tie ya up again, " he threatened.

She stilled instantly, her eyes narrowed. "You wouldn't fucking dare," she spit icily.

"Hit me again, 'n find out." She reluctantly relaxed, her arms crossed with great difficulty. She kept the hard glare on her face, but knew he couldn't see it. Her legs dangled helplessly in front of his chest as they made their way down the stairs. "See, now that s'not so bad, is it?" he hummed. He patted her midsection with his stump. "We're gettin' along just fine, and nothin' terrible's happenin'."

"I hardly call this "getting along"," Erica grumbled. She continued burning holes into the floor with her eyes. When they made it to the last step and he didn't release her, she began to get fussy again. "Merle just put me the fuck down. All I can see is the stupid ground!"

"Ah don't know," he laughed, "m' view is pretty damn good." She felt another stroke across her backside and couldn't stop herself from wiggling to get free.

"Ugh!" she cried in disgust. He subdued her squirming with a yank on her stomach. "Just put me down and I'll be good."

He paused in his steps for a moment. "Fine."

She sighed in relief. "Good, now-" Erica yelped as he abruptly let go of her. She rolled ungracefully off of his shoulder, landing on the old floor with a loud thud. Her tailbone took the brunt of her fall and she just barely contained a pained grunt. "You bastard!"

He didn't even turn around to look at her as he marched out the door and toward _her_ truck. "Well, ya said ya wanted down," he shrugged.

She clenched her fists and forced herself to stand up. "I hate you!" she screamed.

He turned around to smirk just as he tossed her bag into the back. "Aw, be careful, ya say that enough 'n ah might jus' start believin' ya," he smiled, giving her a wink before turning around to go to the driver's side.

She squared her shoulders, narrowed her eyes, and sucked in a deep breath. The knife she kept hidden pressed against her skin as a reminder.

She could wait, for now. She would climb into that truck and act like a good girl if it kept her alive. She would become a captive bitch in Merle's psychotic little cage.

But she swore on her life, one thing.

She would kill Merle Dixon.

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**A/N: **Rating will mostly likely change because of future violence, language, and sexual content. I mean, _come on_, it's _Merle_. Hope you liked it! Check out my other story, Surviving on Luck.

I have to give a little credit to the movie, the Bounty Hunter. It gave me some of my inspiration.

Follow, favorite, and review! It would mean a lot to me.


	2. The Job

**Disclaimer:** I submit myself to this, ya know? I must be a masochist or something. I do not own the Walking Dead. See? That hurt worse than being bucked off by a green horse into a field of stickers. I _am_ a masochist.

I'd like to apologize in advance for all racial slurs, language, and violence.

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**The Job**

"Merle," the Governor beckoned quietly. Merle turned around from feeding the walkers, the bucket hanging loosely from his fingers. The biters were kept good and healthy until fighting time. He couldn't wait until he got to kick Martinez's teeth in again. The damn spic had been asking for it, always commenting on his lack of limbs. The fighting was supposed to be fake... scripted, actually, but that didn't mean the occasional fist didn't knock a few teeth out now and then.

"Yeah?" He didn't add on a "sir" like the other men. He still had his balls and he was proud to let them do the talking.

Their leader, who supposedly puked sugar and shit rainbows according all the townspeople in Woodbury, stood in front of him with blood on his hands. He carefully wiped them on a rag, his face devoid of any emotion, as if he had been doing nothing more than changing the oil in his car. Merle didn't even bother to try and figure out which captive had taken the beating this time.

He spoke in the tone of voice that told Merle he was getting ready to do something the rest of the town would never know about. "I need you to retrieve someone for me," he ordered, maintaining an eerie calm. As long as Merle had known the man, he had never lost his temper, at least, not openly. He showed his anger in more… dangerous ways. Secretly and quietly, without witnesses.

Merle set the bucket on the ground. "Yeah, who am ah goin' after this time?" He cracked his neck, before focusing his efforts on his back. His spine snapped and popped, complaining about years of rough work. Damn, he was getting old, but hell would be freezing over and pigs would be flying before he ever admitted that to anyone. He could kick any smug bastard's ass, dead or alive, no matter how old he got. "Did Bauman try ta escape 'gain?"

The Governor shook his head. "No. No he's still locked up tight in his room," he assured. He shifted his stance, trying to lean over Merle. Merle noticed the attempt at intimidation, but didn't react to it. He wasn't going to back up like some pussy, too afraid to look their big, bad leader in the eye, but he wasn't going to challenge the one man who had given him everything. "This task is a little more… _different_ than your previous assignments."

Merle grunted. He picked the bucket back up, lazily ambling toward what he liked to refer to as "the meat locker". The Governor trailed behind him, his footsteps quiet, but not quite silent. "Ah'll have ta load up the truck Thursday, gotta finish trainin' the damn newbies tomorrow," Merle grumbled, informing the Governor of his plans. The biggest shit-eating grin came across his face at the next words to hit his ears.

"Oh, I'll get Martinez to take care of that, this is much more important." Merle was aware he wasn't the brightest light bulb in the supply closet, but he knew how to get what he wanted.

"Well, ah guess ah can set out tomorrow then," Merle replied, the smirk on his face growing. This little trip also meant he would miss the monthly "town meeting". If the townspeople ever covered anything of actual fucking _importance_, he would pay attention now and then. They lived in their ignorant bubble, unaware of what the _real _men were doing for their safe, little community. They spent their meetings talking about whether the tomatoes were ripe enough to pick or if they should do more laundry on Monday's or if the children had enough free time after chores. The next person to complain about the lack of neighborly love in town would be losing their tongue. These damn people thought they were all just playing house until everything bad blew over.

Well, the fucking joke was on them, wasn't it? The world would never go back to the way it was.

Merle was perfectly fine with that. He would survive, no matter how shitty the world got. After all, nobody could kill a Dixon, but a Dixon.

"Good, come to my office later and I'll tell you where you should start looking." Merle placed the bucket with the others, easily ignoring the smell of rotting meat. The geeks would eat anything that once walked, that was for sure, so no one spent time in making sure their food was fresh. He heard the Governor's echoing steps as he made his way back to the open enclosure.

"Anythin' else?" he called, studying the mystery meat hanging in the room. He had caught most of it and he couldn't even recognize what animal it used to be anymore.

"Yeah," the Governor answered, his voice somehow still controlled, though he was yelling from all the way down the courtyard. "She's a fighter."

Merle's eyebrows furrowed and he cursed under his breath.

_She?_

* * *

"I estimate she'll probably be holing up around here. She's had a couple days' head start on you, so she might be hard to catch up to. She took my good truck." The Governor licked his lips, an almost predatory tone to his words. "I expect it back." He kept his eyes on the map, his fingers circling a few cities. It allowed Merle to study the man's emotionless face. "I anticipated her coming back within a day or two leaving, but she proved me wrong."

Merle had never heard of a woman staying in Woodbury, at least, not anywhere they kept the captives. He knew every inch of those blood stained rooms. There had never been a woman in them, at least, not while he had been living here.

The Governor had a specific job lined up for him. It had been that way ever since he arrived. He was sent to capture or kill runaway men; a few desperate folks who had done the Governor wrong. People always tried to escape, but it was pointless in the end. Merle could track as good as, if not better, than Daryl. He had taught the little pussy everything he knew, after all.

However, he had never hunted a woman. At least, not in the way the Governor wanted him to. Merle scratched his jaw, wondering where this female had been hiding. What she had done to piss of their lethal leader. She must have been a Woodbury resident that poked her nose where it shouldn't have been. He didn't deal with domestic problems, so he wouldn't have been alerted to any complications with the gentle, unaware townspeople.

It left Merle wondering what else he was missing. And being Merle, that didn't set right with him. All his life, he always knew what was going on and who was doing what, so being out of the loop felt unnatural. He needed to have information on everyone, something he could use against them. He wasn't some damn gossip who lived on the street corner. He was just cautious and observant; ready to assess anyone as his enemy at any time.

It was one of the reasons he was one of the only people left alive.

"What's this woman look like?" Merle interrupted.

The Governor didn't attempt to describe her or spend time searching for some sort of identification. He pulled open a desk drawer and drew out a picture in one smooth motion. He handed the picture over without needing to look down at it. Merle took note of all of this. The woman was someone of importance, and for some reason, he had never heard of her.

The picture was snapped during a happier time, before the world went to shit.

Merle took in the image, his eyes raking over the unfamiliar face.

Light brown hair framed a smiling face. She had soft look about her, with pale skin and bright green, doe eyes. However, the soft lines of her face contradicted against the fire in her emerald eyes. Her smile, though genuine, seemed almost deceptive. It led him to believe she could have easily pissed off someone like the Governor.

He couldn't help but think, while he was doing his assessment, that she was pretty fucking hot. With a large rack busting through her shirt and full lips that beckoned any man to kiss them, it made him wonder if there was another reason the Governor wanted her back.

"Her name's Erica Cohen. I want you to bring her back_ alive_, and if you can, uninjured. When she gets here, she needs to be taken straight to me," the Governor instructed, easing into his chair. He retrieved the glass that never left his office. He reached under his desk to grab the bottle of alcohol he kept hidden, his eyes never leaving Merle. "She's good at escaping, but once you get her here, it should be fairly easy to keep her under control." He poured himself a splash of bourbon before replacing the bottle.

"Like ah said, ah'll head out tomorrow. Shouldn't take long ta get to the first town, and knowin' how bitches are 'bout travelin', she won't have gotten far," he mumbled, still staring down at the picture.

He was so distracted he almost didn't notice the dart flying straight toward his head.

He just barely ducked out of the way, cursing God, the Governor, and anyone who had ever been born. The dart landed just left of the center of the dartboard, barely missing both his head and the center.

"What the hell?" he growled.

"I suggest you refrain from calling her that," the man, who had just tried to kill him, threatened. His voice was dead quiet and calm, like a snake before it strikes. Merle scowled as he clenched his fist, crushing the picture in his hand, and leaned forward.

"Why's she so damn important ta ya? Huh?" he interrogated, his voice holding its own threat.

The Governor's eyes hardened and he stiffened. "I don't think that's any of your business," he hissed.

Merle grabbed the desk, not coming face to face with the Governor, but bending down close enough to smell the man's aftershave. "It's m' business if ahm the one goin' after the _bitch_," he snarled.

Merle knew he pushed it when the Governor's nostrils flared and his hand closed tight enough around his glass to nearly shatter it.

"No, it's your job to do as you're told and not ask questions." The Governor leaned the rest of the distance, getting fully in Merle's face. "Don't forget, I gave you your position, that handy little contraption," he said, gesturing to Merle's arm, "and your_ life_. I can take all of it away just as easily."

Merle had been itching for a fight since Martinez's lewd comment on him being one handed. How it must get tiring not being able to switch hands when he was rubbing one out. He knew if he really wanted to, he could take the Governor in a fist fight. Hell, in any kind of fight. He also knew he would have the wrath of a whole town of people to deal with.

Reluctantly, Merle backed up, his jaw set in anger.

The Governor nodded and relaxed back into his chair, content with Merle's surrender.

"Good, now, no one will hear of this little job of yours, understand?" he asked. Though he looked and sounded composed, he still had rage in his eyes, waiting to be unleashed. Merle nodded silently, not trusting himself to speak. A swirl of insults filled his head, begging to be said. The Governor squinted. His face slowly morphed into the expression of a man about to get pleasure out of kicking a dog when it was down. "_Understand_?"

Merle breathed heavily, exhaling and inhaling. He grit his teeth. "Yes," he spit.

Merle turned to leave, his chest heaving with thick, angry breaths.

The Governor's next words made him stop mid-step.

"Yes, what?"

It took everything Merle had not to turn back around and clobber the man. Every muscle he had was tensed and ready for a right. His whole body was wound up tighter than a spring. He knew if he started in on the Governor, he wouldn't stop.

So he sucked in another breath, dug his nails into his palm, the picture practically obliterated in his hand, and closed his eyes.

"Yes, _sir_."

He made it to the door before the merciless voice met his ears again. "Oh, and Merle?" the Governor called. Merle paused in the doorway, ready to bolt. "If you don't find her?" He gripped the doorknob, ready to exit. "Don't come back."

Merle heard the wood of the door split as he slammed it behind him.

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**A/N:** Sorry if you guys didn't like my word choice or syntax, I was trying to get into Merle's head. Speak, think, and act like he does. I really didn't want Merle to be the Governor's little bitch, but I also wanted to show the relationship they have. Why Merle sort of feels indebted to him and unable to leave. Why he can't stand up and be, well, _Merle_. Also, you guys wanna know Erica's past, huh, do ya?

Wait and see!

You read in this chapter that the Governor refers to the truck as his, but in the previous chapter, Erica referred to it as hers. There is a whole story involved with this truck, _trust me_.

I was overwhelmed with the positive reaction to the last chapter. It really meant a lot to me and urged me to write. Thanks to those who followed and/or favorited.

Also, a big thanks to the reviewers: **You May Call Me Goddess - Bitch Goddess**, **xTroubleNGlitter**, **Brazen Hussy**, and my **Guest**. You guys really inspired me after reading your encouraging commentary!

Hope everyone liked the chapter. Please follow, favorite, and review! Thanks for reading!


	3. The Search

**Disclaimer: **I do not own the Walking Dead.

Gosh darnit, quit reminding me!

Again, apologizing for slurs, language, and violence.

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**The Search **

Merle lifted up the last bag, heaving it into the bed of the truck with more force than necessary. He didn't normally travel heavy, but hell if he would be unprepared. The zombie fucking apocalypse didn't leave him much room for error. If he messed up simply because he didn't have an extra gun or a spare knife… well, let's just say he wasn't too fond of losing any more limbs.

He knew one guy that the Governor had found. A puny, useless little son of a bitch with a quick mouth and a slow mind. The man could spit out insults and comebacks faster than even Merle himself, but that didn't mean he was smart enough to avoid being bitten.

He had needed to cut off his foot during one of their "scavenging trips". A walker had been hiding underneath a van that he had been leaning up against, neglecting his job like the lazy fucker he was. After it had happened, he pussied out and begged for a different option, any other option really.

Well, the Governor had another option lined up for him.

They had made up some bullshit story about the man being a hero. He had given his life saving Shumpert from a horde of biters. It didn't matter. He had been nobody; someone that no one would miss. One of the men on the force, not unlike himself; unseen and expendable.

Merle shook his head, wondering exactly why his mind had pulled that memory out of hundreds.

He climbed into the truck, making sure to flip off a passing Martinez.

Merle didn't know why, but the wetback had been acting smugger than a fox in the henhouse. He had been casting victorious smirks at Merle and sauntering around with a cocky swing to his step. He knew Martinez couldn't have found out about anything involved with his assignment. When the Governor wanted something to be a secret, it _stayed a fucking secret_. However, the spic knew something, and he wasn't telling.

Merle didn't have the time to beat it out of him. He would have to wait until he returned to squeeze it out of the prick. Better yet, if he got back in time, he could knock the arrogance out of the man at the monthly fight.

He pulled up to the gate, motioning for them to be opened. They weren't even fully open before he peeled out of Woodbury, dust stirring up behind his squealing tires.

After stomping back to his bunk last night, Merle had given some serious thought to this mission. This chic, Erica, had been on his mind all night. The glint in the Governor's eyes as he talked about her had been possessive and protective. But the way he had talked about her, it was as if she was nothing more than a plaything. Yet, he had reacted negatively toward Merle's particular nickname for her. He cared about her, in one way or another. In some twisted way, the man felt something for her-as much as the Governor could feel anyway.

She was a mystery, but she was a valuable one.

Merle had been directly ordered to refrain from killing her, unlike any other person he had been sent after before. The Governor wanted her alive and he wanted her to be kept a secret.

Merle knew when an opportunity-a _gift_-fell into his lap. Sure, this gift was disguised in horse shit and made his blood boil with anger, but it was a gift nonetheless.

He had been trying to get the Governor to agree to send out a search team. Just a few people to help scour nearby towns for signs of his old group. His brother was alive, he could feel it. He hadn't yet told the Governor about his brother. He simply hinted at his old group, aiming his motives toward revenge and rivalry. So far, the Governor believed it. Merle may be his right hand man-irony fucking ignored-but that didn't mean he told the man everything. The Governor latched onto you, sucking you dry until you could give nothing more. If Merle gave even the slightest hint of vulnerability, the Governor would use it to his advantage. As much as Daryl denied it, to Merle, he was a vulnerability-a weakness.

In some ways, Merle was like the Governor. He knew when to use something to get what he wanted. Merle could use this woman to his advantage. This woman, whoever she was, was the Governor's weakness. He hadn't seen the man show any real emotion, towards anyone, until now. The whores he invited to his room earned nothing more than passive, lustful appreciation.

The Governor had never cracked his flawless mask of perfection. At least, not until this woman was mentioned.

Merle kept his good hand on the wheel, keeping a watchful eye on the road and its surroundings. The next town wouldn't be for a good hour or so, but the occasional roadside motel held potential. She could be holed up in one of the rooms. Like a fucking damsel in distress, she was more than likely waiting to be rescued.

Or captured.

If the woman was smart-which, like most bitches, she probably wasn't-she'd drive as far she could get with whatever gas she could find and then ditch the truck.

The thing was a dead giveaway. It couldn't be concealed by trees or hidden amongst other vehicles.

It was a big, two thousand and nine F150, bright red and eye catching. It guzzled gas faster than a dying man in the desert drank water. It wasn't practical by any means, but the Governor refused to trade it up. It didn't go out often, so it didn't much matter how much gas it wasted, but still, the thing took up space.

Merle slowed as he passed a motel, searching the parking lot for any signs of the truck.

After finding no bright red vehicles, he flicked his eyes to the doors. Most of them swung open, the doors sagging of their hinges. The few closed rooms had doors rotted into the entryways, no indication of being opened recently.

Merle was about speed up when caught something his eye.

One door, right smack in the middle of the others, stood a little straighter. It didn't meld into the doorway. It had been opened recently. A chair was placed beside the door, convenient if someone wanted to keep watch or go out for a smoke. A few dead biters laid strewn around the door, signifying that someone had cleared out the room.

He sped up, leaving the motel behind him and out of sight.

A couple of seconds down the road he made a wide U-turn that in the old days would have had every cop in the vicinity on his tail. He smirked to himself.

As if in reminder, his whole arm ached. The smirk dropped into a scowl. Cops had rubbed him the wrong way back in the old world, but now they made him want to go on a fucking murder spree. Officer friendly and the nigger would pay. It would be long and painful, and would involve a few certain body parts being painfully removed.

He swung into the motel parking lot, careful to park close enough to motel room so that he cornered whoever was inside the motel, but stopped far enough away to make a quick exit.

He already had a gun strapped in at his hip, a few knives hidden in certain places, but he grabbed another gun from the glove box, just in case.

Merle kept low as he made his way to the door, careful to avoid the window. If the woman, or whoever was inside, didn't know he was here by now, well, then they deserved to die. No one that stupid should be allowed to live, not in this world. If they did know he was here, he wanted to avoid the window. He wasn't going to make himself an easy target. If he did that, then _he_ deserved to die.

His hand hovered over the handle of the motel door, the lock clearly busted and useless. He listened for movement.

It took a few moments, but hesitant rustling was heard through the chipping red door.

He raised his gun, gripped the doorknob, and took a deep breath.

Then burst through the doorway.

* * *

Erica Cohen hummed softly to herself, running her hands through her dirty locks.

It was almost hopeless, trying to get the tangles out. She had only been on her own for a few days, but the dirt she acquired in that time was enough to account for a lifetime. There was no running water anywhere, not unless she wanted to go back.

She gave up on any personal grooming, huffing with slight irritation. The cracked mirror of the motel bathroom showed a beautiful girl with long hair and deep eyes. She had a healthy face with rosy cheeks and smooth skin. She knew she appeared healthier than any other survivors of the zombie apocalypse.

Those… things were everywhere. They loitered outside her motel room. She could hear them shuffling and groaning. Biters. That was what they were called in Woodbury, but the name seemed so misplaced and understated. Those zombies-biters-latched on to a person. Not just biting at them, but feeding off them like ravenous parasites. They didn't stop for anything. Monster was a better name. She had killed a few of them, back when it all started, but not since then. Despite her healthy appearance, she knew she had no experience fighting off a zombie. She was weak, not built for strength, but sculpted for beauty.

The Governor had kept her well-fed. She had full cheeks and rounded thighs, unlike many of the habitants of Woodbury. She remembered staring out the window, taking in their frail and skinny frames, so malnourished compared to hers. She couldn't help but be jealous. Be jealous of their ignorance and of their freedom.

Erica's eyes searched the mirror, trying to find something in her face. Something that would tell her she was different than the woman trapped in Woodbury. She still seemed vibrant and untroubled, like nothing had happened to her since the apocalypse. As if she was still the girl next door, not a care in her pretty, little head. She had assumed she would look… haunted. She should be changed. Broken or dirty.

On the outside she looked completely fine. Unchanged. But not on the inside. He had scarred her forever on the inside.

Her eyes welled up.

A beautiful woman still stared back at her; no trace of evil tainted her flawless face. He had always loved her beauty, reveled in it. She knew beauty was a curse in this world. She had been taught the hard way. Beauty was contained, kept away from the rest of the world. In her case, by an evil man who didn't want to share her with anyone else. A selfish man that had confined in a room like a butterfly to a jar.

Besides the grime that was quickly gathering in her clothes and hair, nothing was changed. She looked the exact same as the day the whole world had changed.

Erica slowly brought a hand up, pushing at the soft skin around her eyes. She searched for something, _anything_. Her eyes. Why didn't they show her pain? Her past? Her torture? Eyes were supposed to be the window to the soul, but hers were cold and shallow. They didn't display the horrid things done to her. Glassy green orbs, lifeless and emotionless, with tears dripping from them. They were nothing more than a colorful reminder. _He_ had loved her eyes.

Erica still looked beautiful, and she hated it.

Why couldn't she look different? Everything inside her was an ugly mess, but the universe didn't give her the courtesy of showing it on the outside. Maybe if it did, it would help her to heal, to move on. If she could just _know _that she was different. That all of her was broken. If she could see her wounds, then maybe they would heal. But if _that_ didn't change her, then nothing would. And she wanted to change. She wanted to remove his presence from her body.

Her hands moved to her hair.

He may have loved her eyes, but he had cherished her hair. He had touched it every time he saw her and combed through it every chance he got. It looked exactly like his wife's, he had said. He'd run his fingers through it with hunger, an insane glint in his eyes.

_His hand lovingly brushed her hair, stroking through it gently with a comb it as though it were fragile silk. _

She winced.

_His hands brushed her hair behind her ear, caressing her skin._

She bit her lip till it bled.

_His hands tugged at her hair, pulling on it, forcing her closer to him._

She was_ his_. Everything about her was _his_.

Erica's fist slammed into the mirror, shattered pieces of glass cutting into her knuckles.

Broken glass lay on the floor, distorting her image into a hundred different reflections, portraying how she felt. She was scattered into a hundred smashed pieces. She was a mess, shattered and damaged, lying broken on the floor, waiting to be fixed.

Except, just like this mirror, no one was coming to fix her. No one was going to pick up her pieces and put her back together again. She doubted anyone would be able tell the horrors she had suffered. Her beauty remained undamaged, unlike everything else about her.

Erica fell down onto her knees, the glass cutting into the skin of her knees. Her shaking hands grabbed a large shard of glass, the jagged edge biting into the soft flesh of her palm.

She sobbed loudly, the sound echoing throughout the motel bathroom. She held out her long hair, feeling his breath in her ear and fingers in her hair. She painfully remembered his hands twisting into her locks. The first hack took away the burn of his touch. She felt his fingers winding into the strands of hair, as if she were a beloved pet. The second hack took away the embarrassment of his touch. His whole hand enveloping her head, yanking her head back, bending her to his will. The last hack took away the pain of his touch.

When she was done, she caught sight of herself in the shattered glass.

Erica was ugly, just like she wanted. Her hair was to her shoulders, still long, but in uneven and jagged ends. Blood spilled down her hand, coating her arm in crimson streams. It was smeared into her hair, matting the strands to her neck. Her eyes were puffy and red from crying and her lips were pale and bloody from biting into them.

Almost hesitantly, she smiled. She cradled her injured hand, feeling the pain, but easily ignoring it. No one would recognize her in this moment. It made her feel so much better. To _know_ there _was_ a broken and battered girl underneath the perfect exterior _he_ had created. That she was still in her body, her pain no longer disguised by him.

A full blown smile settled onto Erica's bruised mouth.

Now that all of her was broken, she could finally begin to heal.

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**A/N: Please read this note so I can apologize! **Woah, sorry this took me a while. I actually had this all written up a while ago, but my computer shut down before I could save it. Boo. Anyway, I couldn't recover it and it took me a while to get the courage to restart the whole thing, because it was such an emotional chapter to write. So I apologize for not getting this out sooner, I really wanted to.

I hope you liked it, and got Erica's thought process. Obviously she's totally fucked up from the Governor's presence, and she's trying to find someone who can be fixed within herself, so she knows she can heal. Gosh, I really hated explaining that, but I needed to in case anyone didn't understand. I really want the intensity in this chapter to hit.

Lemme know if it gets too emotional and intense and you guys want it to be changed to a Mature rating.

I would absolutely love a follow, favorite, and/or review!


	4. Complications

**Disclaimer: **I do not own the Walking Dead. It's terribly sad, but I managed to get a new puppy recently. And she makes me happy enough to forget about that. She's also been keeping me quite busy. (Someone dumped her by the river, so make sure to hate on animal dumpers a bit for her. But lucky me, who found her while walking along the river. It's their loss, she's awesome.)

I apologize and warn you now of Merle's racial slurs, language, and violence. It gets pretty brutal this chapter.

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**Complications**

Merle stood stiffly, his hand pushing the person into the wall, his bayonet pressed against their neck.

He had busted in, not exactly predicting it to be Erica, but hopeful it was. He stood by his opinion that all women were dumb and dramatic and hormone fueled bitches with three purposes.

Cooking, cleaning, and fucking.

Well, and popping out babies, but the third thing took care of that.

However, for Erica to stop at the first motel she found and stay there for days would be plain and fucking stupid. No living soul with half a brain would settle into a rundown motel, without a source of food or water nearby, and proceed to reside there for days on end. Not after stealing a truck, escaping Woodbury, and pissing the devil himself off.

So it was no real surprise when he was met with a guttural, _male_ cry and flailing fists.

The little prick was short-shorter than any respectable man should be. He could barely put up a fight. His small fists pummeled into Merle's torso, practically tickling him with their feeble force. Merle shoved his gun into his back pocket so he could have both hands free to deal with the pest buzzing in front of him.

"Whoa, whoa, lil' guy," Merle chuckled. He easily blocked the man's punches. After backing the thrashing munchkin up a bit, he sent a harsh fist to his chest. The man's breath was instantly knocked out of his body with force of Merle's punch. Merle smirked, before swinging the man around and pinning him against the wall. He not so gently pushed his bayonet against the weak bastard's jugular. The stranger's erratic movements threatened the blade dangerously closer to his throat. He desperately tried to get his breath back, not recovering easily from Merle's assault.

Merle smirked victoriously. "Who…?" the man gasped before refocusing his efforts on escaping.

Merle rolled his eyes. "Alright, ya little shit, here's how this is gonna go down. Ya are gonna stop strugglin', cuz if ya don't, well let's just say _this_," he rubbed his bladed arm against the skin of the stranger's neck, "ain't just for show." Within seconds, the man stopped squirming. His eyes bulged and his chest jumped with effort to obtain air, but he ceased trying to fight back. "Good, now, ole Merle just needs ta ask ya a few questions. Then ah'll be on m' merry way 'n ya, well," Merle peered around at the disgusting motel room, "ya can continue ta live in this hellhole until one of those buggers out there eats ya."

Merle took some time to study the man. He was puny. So short he barely reached Merle's chin. Not only did his height pose a masculinity problem, but the fucker was skinnier than the bitches on the cover of those fancy, waiting room magazines. He had a feminine facial structure and long, greasy brown hair. However, he was clearly male. Only a guy could give off a stench that bad.

Plus, he was sporting some pretty impressive facial hair.

The stranger finally regained his breath. He blinked, taking in Merle with disbelief and confusion, as if not believing he had been overpowered.

"What the… what the fuck?" he muttered, seemingly talking to himself.

Merle rolled his eyes again.

"Lookie here…?" Merle raised his eyebrows, waiting for a name to be revealed.

It took at least two minutes before the man caught on.

"Um, Stanley," he mumbled.

"Yeah, Stanley, ah won't kill ya. Like ah said, ah jus' need ya ta answer some questions," Merle reassured in a bored voice. Stanley started to nod, fear evident in his eyes, but stopped as he remembered the blade against his throat. "Okay, so, how long ya been holed up in this joint?"

Stanley gulped. "Uh, well, um, a f-few days." Merle studied him closely, practically nose to nose, squinting.

Merle leaned back, satisfied with the answer. Stanley sighed in relief.

"Ya got any weapons stashed 'round here?"

Stanley hesitated slightly, before slowly answering, "No, nothing." Merle narrowed his eyes, following Stanley's gaze to the corner of the room.

His good hand kept ahold of Stanley's shirt, shoving him towards the nightstand. Merle briefly let go of his shirt to yank open the drawer.

A knife was stashed neatly next to a bible. It was big enough to be of some use against walkers, but would do no real damage against a large man like himself. Merle pointed to it with his bayonet.

"That look like nothin'?" Merle barked. He slammed the man back up against the wall, sliding his bayonet against his throat again, now pressing deeply into the skin. Stanley's eyes widened and he tried to turn his head away. "Yer orders were real simple, Stanley. Jus' answer a few questions, 'n you'd be off Scott free." Merle sneered. "But ah see now that were gonna have ta do this the hard way."

A drop blood leaked onto the blade of Merle's attachment. Stanley yelped and practically smashed his head back into the wall, trying to escape the bayonet.

"I'm sorry!" he squealed, "I'm so sorry, man! I'll be honest, I swear!"

Merle released some of the pressure with a victorious smirk.

He suddenly turned dark again. "Ya better, cuz ah'll know if yer lyin'. And if yer lyin' ta me, boy, there'll be a lot more blood coverin' this here blade." Stanley swallowed thickly and what looked to be tears formed in his eyes. If there was one thing Merle Dixon could not tolerate, it was tears. Not from women, and especially not from men. "Aw, suck it up, ya pussy. Ah need ya clearheaded for this next question," Merle snarled.

Stanley blubbered out a stammered, "O-okay."

"Has anyone else been by here? More specifically, has a woman been here?"

Stanley blinked rapidly. "A-a… woman?"

Merle raised his eyebrows. "Ya know, a human, sorta like a man, but with titties and a vag?" Stanley only stared blankly. "The thing ya probably had ta pay so it would get near yer ugly ass?" The man's eyes widened. "Son of a bitch, are you a virgin? Or jus' ten kinds a stupid?"

Stanley finally cleared his throat. "Um, n-no, no one's been here. Just, uh, me."

Merle narrowed his eyes in speculation. "Yer lyin." He increased force on the deceitful bastard's neck.

"No!" he squealed. Merle paused. Stanley hurried to explain. "I swear, no one's been in_ here_. But, I, uh, I saw someone drive by a few days ago. Red truck. It slowed down, but didn't stop."

"Which way was it headin'?"

Stanley crossed his eyes as he tried to get a good look at Merle's bladed attachment. "It w-was going the same direction you were heading, I, uh, think."

Merle set his mouth in annoyance. "Ya think or ya _know_?" he pressed menacingly.

Stanley's fish eyes bulged. "I know! I know!" he squeaked.

After a few choice words under his breath that left Stanley cowering in fear, Merle dropped him carelessly to the floor. Stanley slumped against the wall, one hand gently covering his throat and the other held out protectively in front of him. Merle sneered at him.

"Oh, man up. Ah told ya, I'm not aimin' ta kill ya," he snarled. Merle rolled his eyes before ignoring him and peering out the window. Though there hadn't been any walkers near the room when he had first come in, a few were now gathered outside the door. Merle knew motel walls were paper thin and slamming someone up against them had probably shook the whole establishment and alerted every biter in the area. "Fuck," he grunted.

"What?" Stanley asked hesitantly, he hadn't moved an inch from his spot. Merle disregarded him. He grabbed the gun from his back pocket, flicking the safety off. "What? What is it?" Stanley demanded, his voice rising in panic.

"Shut up, ya little bitch. It's jus' a few walkers, nothin' ta worry 'bout," Merle informed angrily. Stanley was smart enough not to question Merle's term of "walker," apparently figuring out the meaning as he moved further away from the door. Merle counted the ones could see through the window. One... six… thirteen…

There were a total of seventeen walkers growling hungrily outside the door. Merle cursed again.

He could take down seventeen by himself, maybe, but there was no guarantee there weren't more beyond the view of the window. He strode over to the drawer, picking up the small knife. He took a moment to sneer at it. It was a pussy knife, but it would have to do.

He threw it down next to a sniveling Stanley, who stared wide eyed at it.

"Wha-what?"

"Pick it up," Merle growled demandingly. Stanley slowly, his hand shaking a little, reached out and wrapped his fingers around the handle of the blade. "Good, now we're gonna git rid of some biters. Ya think ya can do that without cryin' 'n screamin' like a lil' girl?" he mocked. Stanley stood up slowly, looking fearfully from the knife to Merle. He slowly nodded. Merle rolled his eyes. He moved to side of the door. "I'm gonna open this door. Ya take out what ya can, 'n ah'll take out the rest. Ya do this, 'n ah'll leave ya 'lone. Ah swear on my dead mama's grave, ya hear?" Merle grinned as Stanley stared dumbly at him. He didn't wait for Stanley to respond, just turned around to open the door.

He grasped doorknob and was counting down from three in his head when he felt the sharp sting on his arm.

He glanced down to see the pitifully small knife now stuck in his arm, Blood welled up slowly around the wound. The fucking bastard was probably aiming for his side, but Merle had moved too much to the left and it struck his bicep. He knew it hurt a lot more than what he was feeling right now, but the adrenaline and anger covered the pain.

He slowly raised his head, his eyes landing on Stanley. The man looked positively terrified.

"I- I didn't mean… I just, well, I-"

Stanley had lost all his stupid, one second bravado as he realized his mistake. "Ya jus' thought ya'd try 'n take me out, don't blame ya," Merle said calmly as he put his weapon back in its holster. Deadly calm in both his actions and words. "Woulda done the same thang." Merle eyed the man with a sick smile. "But see there's somethin' ya don't know." He took a menacing step forward with each word. "_Nobody_ kills a _Dixon_, but a _Dixon_."

With those final words ringing through the motel room, he lunged forward. His bayonet slashed quickly and efficiently across Stanley's neck. The man's eyes went wide in death. He gurgled, an awful choking sound escaping his mouth. Blood spilt onto the bayonet blade and coated all of his neck. Merle solemnly watched as Stanley crumpled to the floor. He was a disgraceful sight, with tears streaked down his face, his eyes open in terror, and blood staining his skin and clothes.

After wiping his bayonet off on the worn bedspread, he grabbed Stanley and hoisted him up, using him as a sort of shield in front of his body.

He kicked the already busted door open, immediately being greeted by the hisses and growls of the undead. Without drama or ceremony, he pushed Stanley's dead body into the crowd of walkers.

He didn't stop to look back at Stanley-to see his body being greedily devoured by monsters in a bloody buffet. He didn't stop to process. He didn't stop to feel remorse.

Merle took advantage of the distraction. He killed the two remaining geeks that stepped into his path and ran toward his vehicle.

He couldn't afford to dwell on Stanley; on already forgotten memories. He had a job to do.

Stanley was simply a complication.

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**A/N:** So sorry I haven't updated in a while. I know… I'm a mean, horrid person. I am so sorry. I have new job to keep up with, and even more recently, a new puppy to care for. I'm so incredibly busy at all moments of the day.

However, I should have managed my time better and got this out. Tell me what you thought, was Merle to brutal? Should it be changed to M yet? Was Merle being _Merle_?


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